Life After You And Me

The 'You' in You and Me

I sit in the backseat of the car, feeling numb. The driver's voice drifts toward me, but it's muffled, like he's underwater or wearing a spacesuit.

I can't make out the words, just the distant, echoing concern.

"Our heartaches are only temporary," I somehow manage to catch those few words, making me tilt my head slightly.

I'm not too sure about that, not this time—maybe not ever. It's been one thing after the other with me.

My eyes stare blankly out the window, but I don't really see anything. The world feels distant, unreal, as if I'm trapped in a nightmare I can't wake up from.

The car stops, and I look up to see a familiar building. My heart sinks as I realize I managed to, once again, find myself at a hospital—a place I've visited all too recently. Memories of my last visit flood back, making my stomach churn.

Today has been a whirlwind of emotions and uncertainty, and as if that wasn't enough, the moment I feared the most has come to life.

I step out of the car, my legs shaky, and walk toward the entrance. Each step feels heavy, like I'm wading through thick mud. The hospital looms ahead, a monolith of trauma and despair.

I remember the first day I met my assaulter—the person who turned my worst nightmare into a reality.

He'd stared maliciously into the depths of my soul, marking his territory and making it clear he wasn't one to be messed about with.

I should've taken that as a sign to steer clear.

If only I had ignored him each time he made jarring comments—they weren't worth his life.

As I push through the doors, the sterile smell hits me, making me feel even more disconnected from reality.

The bright lights and bustling staff add to my disorientation. I approach the clerk at the front desk, my voice barely a whisper as I say, "I'm here for the Bree Street incident."

For whatever reason, my lips can't utter the name.

The clerk looks up from her paperwork, her expression one of practiced empathy.

"Which patient?" she asks, her pen poised over a binder. It's a simple question that requires a simple answer, but to me, it feels like a judgment, a moment of reckoning.

I found out, just a few minutes ago, that both Olli and Evin were hospitalized following the incident. I'm uncertain of what the incident entailed, but I know one of them is barely conscious while the other suffered minor injuries. I don't know who suffered what.

As the clerk holds my contact, waiting for my answer, I attempt to take slow breaths—toning down the erratic beating in my chest.

I need to choose which one to visit first—a mundane task that should take all but a second.

Which one do I visit first? —translation; who do I choose to spend my life with?

Who would I hate to lose the most and whose absence would impact me the least?

Tears stream down my cheeks as I grapple with the choice. Deep down, I know who my heart has chosen—this is the person I can't see myself living without. But that realization terrifies me to my core.